“He’s stalling,” Tyler cuts in, voice low behind me.
“I know,” I murmur.
He prowls behind me, and I can feel his hot breath on the side of my temple.
“You’re trying to decide if they’ll hurt you more than she will.” Tyler implies.
His throat works, but no words come out.
Tyler runs his fingertips along the back of my neck, pushing himself into me. He whispers so that only I can hear, “You’re enjoying this.” I slant my head up at him, eyes lingering a fraction too long on the curve of his lips.
“Wrong calculation,” Tyler challenges the man and pecks me on the lips, taking my breath away then returns to his seat.
I collect the gasket scraper, and stalk over to him. I seize the front of his shirt and slash upward to the neckline. The fabric splits apart, falling away to reveal his bare, hairy chest and stomach, as the ratchet strap leaves shredded material dangling from his body.
I pause, giving him one last chance to speak. He doesn’t take it. Then I begin.
With one decisive pull I lift the gasket scraper and plunge it into his right upper chest above the strap, well past the surface in the dermis, so I can get to work.
A startled, strangled shout tears from his throat.
As I start butchering his chest, blood drips down, and flesh rips away.
I’m halfway done when he roars, “jackinthebox149, you crazy fucking cunt!”
Tyler is on his phone sitting at my back. “Got it. He’s real.”
“One more.” I taunt him, waving the gasket scraper in his line of sight.
He hesitates, and my hand tightens around the tool again as I drive it into his chest, blood spilling over, his screams filling the garage.
Just another day at the office.
After I finish, I survey my canvas with satisfaction.
A frustrated sound breaks from him.
My hand wraps around the bottle of brake fluid.
“Wait, wait,” he pleads. “The - the -themonsterinyourcloset868”
Tyler exhales. “That’s two. I’ve got them.”
I tip the can, allowing it to trickle out, tracing each letter carved into his chest. He screams in utter agony as the amber fluid meets each laceration. It halts the bleeding in seconds, the blood turning dark, tacky and drained dry under the brake fluid.
On his chest it reads:Rapist
The restraints take his weight as he slumps, breath hitching as his body writhes.
I toss the can and unsheath my knife on the side of my vest.
I stoop to his ear, voice smooth. “This is for them.” His eyes flare with fear as the blade glides across his throat. Blood swells from the wound, spilling over him and splattering everything in its path, including me. He gurgles as blood clogs his throat, his body jerking weakly. I watch without looking away as the fight leaves him and he takes his final breath.
I’m not sure how much time passes as I watch him hang, slack in the restraints. Blood drips in a steady rhythm, each drop striking the concrete with a muted tap, the only sound in the garage.
I don’t move.
Tyler stands beside me, our shoulders touch without either of us thinking about it.
